So I tried to make an automated form for this...and failed miserably. So here's Option B.

As most of you already know, you can submit a creepypasta to Faces, Strange and Secret by PMing the story to me. And if you didn't know, you do now.

If you do not wish to PM the story to me or if you want to get a critique of the story before it's put up or suggestions on how to make it better, you can post it here.

A normal creepypasta can be anywhere from one paragraph to twenty pages long (generally, if you're going to write a twenty page creepypasta, however, it would be hosted it on a different site and just linked to it from FS&S - like Shayde's "The DeGroot Journals").

However, I have some constructive criticism: I don't know if it's just me, but the word 'satanic' just makes me laugh nowadays than actually... fear. Religion is mostly scary when we're dealing with the corruption of it. Already evil stuff from religion is not really scary.

All around him, the gray, dark walls of his room stand tall. No light comes from the cracked TV screen nor the ages-old lamp sitting by his bedside. He is a wreck - his hair is missing, lost from stress. His glasses are broken; they lay on the ground, unused. He doesn't need them. He doesn't go outside. He just sits and waits for the last moments of his miserable life.

Months ago, the electricity was shut off, for he had run out of money to spend, wasted on worthless knick-knacks, things bought to bury the pain, the horrible depression that had set in.

His whole life, he had done nothing, coddled by his parents. Now they are gone, and they took his will to live with them. Even his pets are dead - long dead, in fact. He is completely and totally alone. He will be for the remainder of his miserable life.

It doesn't have to end here. It really doesn't. He has no real adversities except himself, and his inability to change. The only thing that is different now is how much he lost. It was a rude awakening - for his whole life he had done nothing but be rewarded for his laziness. He had never worked a day in his life.

Now he doesn't know whether or not it is day or night, as the windows of his room are boarded up. The only thing he knows is a numb, cold feeling. He has no purpose. His entire existence now is just a cycle of sleeping and eating when it is necessary. Even the pests that had once roamed the house have abandoned him. He is in oblivion, and completely aware of it. He is nothing more than a shade, and his house is Asphodel.

It is cold. Too cold. It feels as if the air around him is closing in, suffocating him in a coffin of nothingness. He needs to go. Needs to escape.

He stands up, limps over to the door of his house, and opens it. Outside, it is snowing, and the only lights are from the lampposts. Not a single car cruises down the street. Even outside there is nobody for him. There is only one thing for him to do: walk.

He has no idea where he is going; he operates on pure instinct, nothing more. He passes houses, churches, and old broken down shacks. He continues on, walking down the isolated road until he reaches the edge of town. He wanders off through the forest, the snow getting thicker, a layer of fog settling in. His breath comes in short breaths.

Finally, he breaks out of the trees and finds himself in front of an ice-covered lake. Through a hole in the clouds moonlight illuminates the ice, putting him in a trance-like state.

He follows the light. He steps out onto the lake, and walks towards the center. He needs to be under the moon, needs to see it one last time. The moon is the one thing that is always there. It won't die, or go away from him. It is almost in its own state of oblivion, out in space. He needs company. Any kind of company.

Then, there is a cracking sound, and he falls down into the watery deep. The cold water pierces him like daggers, but it is oddly comforting. He doesn't feel lonely anymore.

Now the only thing he wonders is what he will die from: drowning, or hypothermia?

Here's something I just wrote to sorta describe my own headcanon about the Cold Boy and why he creeps me out. I realized while I was writing that it seemed a lot like the Unnamed Child, but I think the emphasis on loneliness helps that a bit.

Anyway, I've never written creepypasta before, so I'd like some feedback. Also, I can' think of a title.

EDIT: I chose to put the edited version hear rather than clogging the thread with the same story.TITLE: The Lonely Crowd.

QUOTE

I stared at the car as long as I could as it drove away. Unfortunately, it turned after only a few seconds, drifting out of sight without leaving so much as a skid mark behind. I was alone. My best friend and roommate had left for a better life, and I was stuck here. Going to work in an cold office cubicle, surrounded by apathy, staring at the door, hoping someone will care enough to visit me. My apartment is surrounded by so many others that are filled with people. Yet no one cares.

One day, someone did. It was a little boy. He seemed underdressed for the cold weather, so I invited him in and offered him some hot chocolate to warm him up. He didn’t say very much. He didn’t reply when I asked if he was lost or if he wanted me to call his parents.

He looked up and asked me if I wanted to be his friend. I said yes without hesitating. Something about him made me want to know him more. I wanted him as a companion. He said I had to do something for him first. He gave me an insulated box. It was about the size of my head and wrapped up tight. He gave me an address to deliver it to. He told me not to open it.

I did as he said. I didn’t even think of opening it. I knew he would know, and I couldn’t risk him leaving. I couldn’t handle being alone anymore. I needed him.

I walked through the cold streets. Everyone in the neighborhood was locked up safe with their families in their warm houses. They got to enjoy each other’s company and revel in companionship.

I dropped the package off on the front step of the house he told me, rang the doorbell and quickly moved away. They opened the door and took the package. The wind screamed past the rooftops and warmly lit windows as I walked away.

After that the boy stayed with me. Sometimes he would ask me to do other things for him. I delivered more packages. I sent messages. I did all manner of things. I did it all gladly. I didn’t want to make him angry. That might make him leave. I wasn’t so lonely anymore. I had a friend who helped the apartment feel more full. I did everything he said.

But today. Today he walked up to me while I was making us dinner. He looked up at me with cold eyes and said, “You’re a bad person. You hurt people’s feelings. You make them cry. I don’t want to be your friend anymore.”

He left. He left without saying anything else. I ran after him, but I couldn’t even see him turn out of sight. He didn’t leave so much as a footprint behind.

I can’t handle being alone again. He left the window open, despite it being such a cold day.

But it is so nice outside. I think I’ll go out. It’s so cold inside.

A writer’s brain is full of little gifts, like a piñata at a birthday party. It’s also full of demons, like a piñata at a birthday party in a mental hospital. The truth is, it’s demons that keep a tortured writer’s spirit alive, not Tootsie Rolls. Sure they’ll give you a tiny burst of energy, but they won’t do squat for your writing. So treat your demons with the respect they deserve, and with enough prescriptions to keep you wearing pants.-Colin Nissan

Actually, I'm going to edit it a bit and that would give me the perfect title.

A writer’s brain is full of little gifts, like a piñata at a birthday party. It’s also full of demons, like a piñata at a birthday party in a mental hospital. The truth is, it’s demons that keep a tortured writer’s spirit alive, not Tootsie Rolls. Sure they’ll give you a tiny burst of energy, but they won’t do squat for your writing. So treat your demons with the respect they deserve, and with enough prescriptions to keep you wearing pants.-Colin Nissan

Here's something I just wrote to sorta describe my own headcanon about the Cold Boy and why he creeps me out. I realized while I was writing that it seemed a lot like the Unnamed Child, but I think the emphasis on loneliness helps that a bit.

Anyway, I've never written creepypasta before, so I'd like some feedback. Also, I can' think of a title.

Looks nice. And in my headcannon at least he and the Unnamed Child are frequent playmates so maybe he picked up the behavior from her.

A writer’s brain is full of little gifts, like a piñata at a birthday party. It’s also full of demons, like a piñata at a birthday party in a mental hospital. The truth is, it’s demons that keep a tortured writer’s spirit alive, not Tootsie Rolls. Sure they’ll give you a tiny burst of energy, but they won’t do squat for your writing. So treat your demons with the respect they deserve, and with enough prescriptions to keep you wearing pants.-Colin Nissan

I made this creepypasta a while ago due to the lack of Intrusion stories out there. It's titled The Nest:

Should one happen to find the Nest by chance they will always see the Peaceful Valley first. The grass grows so tall that it hit's your chin (no matter how tall you are) and the glimmer of the sun seems to illuminate everything. A truly tranquil place.

Should one look down however they will find the horrifying truth: The abandoned bodies of the Intrusion's victims.

When they look down they see the newborn maggots crawling out of the eye sockets, they will see the larva eating away at the flesh, they will see the spiders rapping small chunks of ear into their webs. The fools try running but that only brings one further into the Nest.

They keep running until their foot manages to land on that poorly placed cliff just right and fall. At first they are concerned with the scraps and cuts on their knees. But then they look upon the breeding ground of the Intrusion. It is a holy place, untouchable to those not welcome, should the Intrusion see strangers it attack with all it's might.

The bees will sting, the red ants will bite, and lastly the spiders shall wrap you in their silk. You might die of the poison, you might die of the shock, but it matters little in the end. Your body shall be slowly eaten, bit by bit and your corpse will become a nursery for the new generation

If your lucky the Intrusion will use another poor soul first, you'll be one of the slim amount of people to get a head start. But the Intrusion never lets it's prey escape.

And it never shall.

(Evolve or Die logo by Pandora)Collab Blogs:Search In The Tale (co-written with Pandora) Individual blogs:Game Time (took over this blog from ZacksQuest)

Looks interesting. However, there are a few grammar errors that can be fixed. And some people might confuse this 'Nest' with Nests, the Convocation's servants... homes... things.

Speaking of the Convocation, I wrote a Creepypasta. It's part of the GLYPHverse:

QUOTE

They came in flocks.

It started with doves; lightning-white, swarming across the sky like stratus clouds. They skidded across the rooftops, raking long cuts through them, creating the most horrible shrieking sound as they did so. Below, people stared, gawked.

Their eyes were beady and black; calculating, nothing even remotely natural in them. They only had one goal: to nest.

More birds came; parrots, crows, vultures, mockingbirds and bluejays. They cried out, creating the illusion of thunder. And, indeed, lightning cracked, volts shooting through their feathers and connecting bird to bird. The electricity struck the ground, again and again. The land below was ravaged. Roofs caved in, fires started, burning brightly.

Towards the center of the flock, the eye of the storm, a cluster of monstrous-looking hawks, their skin blistered, throbbing with red, bulbous pustules. And they carried a woman, dressed in a cloak of black feathers. She grinned madly, her teeth looking more like fangs.

The woman landed on the ground in front of a tall, stone tower. Her smile didn't even falter as she was approached by several heavily-armored guards; no, instead her insane glee intensified.

She drew an old-looking stone dagger from her cloak's pocket, and traced the blade along her skin, drawing blood.

A feathery head - no, many feathery heads - emerged from the wound. Over the guards' gasps of shock, she said coldly, "Open wide."

Your use of semicolons is a little faulty in places, and related to that are the occasional dependent clause standing around. I'd advise, for the final 'paragraph,' making it more clear that the feathery heads are birds. Perhaps add more focus on the guards, as they seem to just appear in the passage as a plot device, an excuse for the woman to pull the dagger. In other words, the passage seems to flow from "birds" to "lightning" to "woman" to "oh also look there are guards" to "woman cuts self and it ends."

Aside from all that, the story itself is sufficiently foreboding, much potential for unnervingness. Which isn't even a word, but you get the point.